Nightmares
by Solomynne
Summary: WARNING: pretty graphic, not for the little ones. yes this means you...not you, YOU. yeah you.


A/N hello everyone, this is a very graphic story that's actually based on a poen i wrote called "ah-ah". i have no idea if i'm going to continue on with it or just leave it as a one-shot, i think a lot of that depends on you guys. so i hope you like it, please leave me a comment no matter how small, comments

and critiques are welcomed with open arms. - Solomynne

Disclaimer: none of these characters are mine, and i think it's safter that way.

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Dream no small dreams for they have no power to move the hearts of men. - Goethe

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Grissom woke suddenly. There was something in his room.

He stayed very still, listening, and after a moment he slowly lifted an arm and got his glasses from the night table. He put them on and sat up in one

careful motion. His were the movements of a man who was not afraid, only...weary. He looked around for the source of the sound, a shush-ing of sorts. His

ears were better since the surgery, that was certain, but he by no means possessed the hearing of a twenty year old. It therefore took him a moment longer

than it might have for a younger man to realize that the sound that had awoken him was merely the secret whisper-language of his curtains blowing in the

night wind.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, an old habit. Throwing back the covers, the silver moonlight washed over his face as he walked to the window

and shut it gently, putting an end to his curtains' conversation. He leaned his forehead against the cool pane of glass and looked out at the city. It

looked its best at this time, in the few magic hours before daybreak, when the lights were the most vibrant; and the people the same. He looked at the clock.

3:56am.

...strange.

Hadn't he gone to bed at 3:00 in the afternoon? If the clock was right he'd slept for nearly thirteen hours, which means he should be at work by now. Why had

no one called him? Maybe they thought he'd needed a break since he'd worked a triple last shift. Feeling irritated (it wasn't for anyone ELSE to decide when

he was fit to work and when he was not) he turned to get dressed for work when he heard it again.

A sound. A shush-ing sound.

And now he was certain it wasn't his curtains after all. The sound was coming from down the hall. And it was coming closer.

Oddly calm, he moved stealthily down the hall to the kitchen, checking the spare bedroom - empty - on the way. He emerged into the kitchen and looked around.

Nothing.

Perhaps he had ima-

"Grissom."

He spun at the sound of his name being spoken from behind him. There was someone standing in the shadows of the threshold between the hallway and the

kitchen. His heart pumping wildly in his chest, he squinted in the semi darkness, trying to identify his intruder. The only light was the pale glow of the

night sky and the city lights spilling though the windows from the adjoining living room, and consequently all he could make out was that his intruder was

barefoot. And wearing...a dress? No, a black robe. A silk, black robe.

He realized then that he recognized the voice, it was the voice of someone who had spoken his name a thousand times before, but never like this. She - for it

was definitely a she - had spoken his name in a dangerous, lust-filled, meaningful way. The dark figure chuckled at the sight of him, mouth agape like the

Billy Bass that hung above his office door, and the laughter sounded slightly cruel. He moved a step forward and the figure stepped further back into shadow,

but not before he took careful note of a delicate, familiar daisy tattoo on the woman's ankle.

Images were running through his head, his mind was reeling, where had he seen that tattoo before? Where had he heard this husky, feminine voice? The name

Lady Heather ran through his mind but was quickly dismissed, and replaced instead with the image of freckled arms, long legs, deep brown eyes, and a

crooked smile.

"Sara?!" he choked.

That laugh, beautifully awful in its bitterness, echoed once again in the darkness, and Sara Sidle stepped forward into the ethereal light of the moon. She

was dressed in a black flowing dressing gown, and underneath she had on a pair of silk, black underwear, and a matching bra. Her hair was down, wild,

curly, and oh-so delicious. Grissom was so aroused and confused that all he could do was say her name again in that strange, strangled way. After gaining

some - but not very much - of his composure, he managed to form a full sentence this time.

"W...what are you doing?"

She said nothing, only smiled a very twisted version of the gap-toothed smile he had come to love so much, and held up a rusted skeleton key level with his

eyes. She stepped forward slowly, but with determination, and placed a hand upon his chest. The spot she touched turned to fire, he wanted her

so badly, he always had. Unfortunately, he was too dumbstruck to do anything in reciprocation as she pressed her body directly against his and looked

up into his blue-grey eyes with such ferocity in her own brown ones that he began to feel increasingly uneasy.

He realized seconds later that his unease was not unfounded. Her smile - which was really more of a stretched grimace - morphed into a tight-lipped frown,

and with what felt to Grissom like superhuman strength, she shoved him down on the floor, hard. He looked up at her, stunned, like an overturned turtle, and

had no time to react before she pounced on him with lightening speed and stealth. In a blur she was seated comfortably on his groin, straddling him with one

milky thigh on either side of his body.

She wasn't heavy, but he still found he was having a very hard time breathing. He could feel the heat and proximity of her body making his own ache with

desire. She leaned forward and ripped open his pyjama shirt, sending buttons flying every which way, and ran a hand greedily across his chest. The Sara

he was looking at now might as well have been a stranger. There was no warmth in her eyes. Her hand stopped over his heart, and she closed her eyes,

feeling the soft, steady beat beneath her palm. "It's in there alright," she spoke quietly, and her words were filled with such sorrow that Grissom felt

hot tears pricking his eyes.

"I really am sorry about this, honey," she crooned, speaking the last word in a mocking tone; making it dirty. "But you know, you brought it on yourself."

With these words, she took the skeleton key and raised it high above her head, and then brought it down in one fast motion, plunging it deep into his

chest. He made no move to stop her, he was hypnotized by her, and somehow, he felt no pain. The wet, cracking sound the key made as she twisted it in his

chest didn't bother him either, nor did the fact that she had now unlocked his rib cage, and had proceeded to plunge a fist into the gaping

maw that had become his chest cavity. She bit a lip, something he was used to seeing her doing when she was looking for something, and looked straight in

his eyes as she fished around in his hot, slippery insides.

At last, it seemed she had found what she was looking for, and pulling out a wooden box her face broke into an awful, triumphant smile. She worked the

last of it out gently, and placed the box, steaming, on top of what was left of his chest, wiping the lid clean. She hesitated, for a moment or two, and

watched him very carefully to gauge his reaction. When he still did nothing, she seemed satisfied in a sad sort of way, as though she was merely

confirming what she didn't want to believe, but already knew to be true. She took the lid in both hands and pushed it back, her full lips parting slightly

with wonder at what she found inside. Carefully, as though she were handling a bird, she lifted out his heart, still beating, and held it, pulsating in

front of his face.

He watched it with wonder and awe, the way a young child watches fireworks for the first time. Then, anger began to rise, boiling, inside of him, and he

spoke for the first time in what seemed like eons. "Give it back." His voice sounded strange to him; old...wistful.

She threw her head back, curls flying, and laughed. Her body rocked with it, and subsequently so did his. Her cackles reverberated off of the refrigerator,

her eyes brimmed with tears. And then her laughter turned to sobbing, her tears of mirth turned to tears so bitter they burned his skin as they fell upon

him.

She quieted after a moment and then smiled a sad smile. Still holding the beating organ in her hand, she leaned down until her lips were nearly touching his

own. She snaked out a long, pink, tongue and dragged it slowly, painfully, along his jawline, stopping when her mouth was next to his ear, where he could

feel her breath, hot and sweet. "Fool," she hissed, "did you really think that love was free?"

Her mouth clamped onto his then, and he tasted her for the first time. Their kiss deepened, and her tongue found its way into his mouth. He was in raptures,

so much so that it took him a moment to notice the metallic taste in his mouth. The blood began to pour from between their lips, he tried to pull away but

her jaws were clamped onto his mouth like a vice grip. He began to struggle, but her body, naked and slick with his own blood, kept slipping out of his

hands.

The real horror of what was happening washed over him, and the sound of his own beating heart, throbbing in her hand above his head, began to become

deafening. At this point, his lungs filled with air, and he began to scream.

Grissom woke instantly, his hand clutched painfully over his chest.

His body was sheen with sweat, and he was breathing as though he had just run a marathon. He snatched his glasses off the nightstand with urgency and

practically jumped out of bed. He looked at the clock.

3:56 am.

Oh God.

His cellphone rang and he nearly wet himself. He stared at it for a moment as though it might be the devil himself, and then reluctantly opened it,

sitting on the bed.

"Grissom?" her voice filled his ears and he nearly winced, but he immediately reprimanded himself for being so illogical. It had only been a dream.

Nightmare - his mind corrected him - nightmare.

She sounded like her regular self and that calmed him, allowing him to actually listen to what she was saying, though he only tuned in mid-sentence,

"...so they made me wait to call you. I told them you wouldn't want to - that is i knew you wouldn't want to sleep in but they insisted. I hope you're not

mad."

He cleared his throat, "No, I'm not mad. But, in the future...in the future I'd prefer if you woke me up if i sleep through my alarm."

"Okay. You want me to come get you? I'll be going past your place, I've got a DB out in the desert."

He stayed silent for a moment, and then replied, "Sure. That would be nice. I can be ready in twenty minutes, is that too long?"

He could hear her smile through the phone, "No, that's just about perfect, I'll see you in twenty."

He said goodbye and hung up the phone, tossing it on his bed as he headed for the shower. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, the sheet of sweat

not yet dried on his skin. He removed his clammy clothes and stepped into the shower, thinking about that horrifying dream - nightmare. Letting out a big

sigh he walked into the warm stream of water and thought,

"I really have to be nicer to that girl."

And he meant it.

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push that lovely little button and let me know what you think, you know you want to. (and thanks for reading) 


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